Lost and Found
by saisei.shinsei
Summary: He could feel the razors-edge of a pointed fang touch lightly to the fragile tissue, in warning. “You should think twice before speaking so thoughtlessly to those more powerful than you. It could be… detrimental, to your health.” CHACK, Slash, Violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Lost and Found

**Author:** ScathingSarcasm

**Pairings/Characters:** Chack

**Rating**: M

**Disclaimer:** I do not own XS or related characters.

**Warnings:** Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH.

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Jack looked down with horrified crimson eyes at the growing pool of blood spreading from his side, and the lifeless chunk of flesh lying innocently on the desert ground. He wondered through the haze of excruciating pain, how it had come to this. The day had started out normally enough...

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FlashBack

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"Haha! You'll never win Jack Spicer! Prepare for a most humiliating defeat!"

"Don't you _ever_ get tired of that line? And dream on, Baldie, this Shen Gong Wu is mine!" Jack shot back at the pompous monk, hovering over the gathering of monks heads with his heli-pack. He let a conceited smirk take over his face - he had to win this time. He only had three Shen Gong Wu left in his arsenal, and at this rate it was just a matter of time until he lost them.

"Wait, Dojo, what exactly does this Wu do? You never told us." the only girl in the group asked, cocking her head confusedly.

Jack grinned at the fool, half-disgusted and half-amused. Of course, the dragon opened his mouth, giving away valuable information. He could have just downsized and told only the monks, but instead he boomed out to the entire world,

"This Shen Gong Wu is the RaiDon Raygun. It shoots a powerful burst of energy that can pierce any armor, including the Two Ton Tunic." Just like fifteen or so other Shen Gong Wu, he thought sardonically. Really, couldn't the master monks be a bit more creative?

"That is, how you say, of low temperature!" the yellow monk shouted, grinning widely. The other teens facepalmed, and Rai corrected, "Cool, Omi. It's _cool_."

"That too!"

"Whatever, losers! I'll definitely find it before you anyway!" he shouted over the wind that had suddenly picked up. Proving his point, he observed where his Wu detector had lead him. It appeared to be a small desert town, plains stretching endlessly to and from the tiny oasis.

Setting his detector to a smaller range, he looked up to see the arrow pointing towards a worn down building with a ratty, brightly colored sign outside that read; "Second Hand Toys". An ironic smile tugged at his lips. One of the most powerful magical items in existence, and he could probably buy it with the change in his pocket. In fact... he dug his gloved hand into the deep pocket of his waistcoat, and came up with a fist full of coins. He definitely could - no need to make things more difficult and draw attention by stealing the Wu. He searched for the enemy warriors, and found them a good ways away, shouting at their dragon. Apparently, his Wu sensing abilities were on the fritz, yet again. He snorted contemptibly. Why didn't they just use the modern technology that was obviously available to them, if the fire monk Kimiko was any indication? Were they so set in the old ways that they couldn't accept what could be a serious advantage for them? Well, if they couldn't, all the better for him. It would be that much easier to gather more Wu.

He strode quickly into the store, lest the other teens catch sight of him and follow. The kindly old lady behind the counter looked twice at his gothic attire, but never the less smiled at him in a grandmotherly fashion. He grinned back charmingly - no need to make a bad impression. In this day and age, entire relationship could be decided by first impressions.

Scanning over the rickety shelves filled with battered and ancient looking blocks, plushies and an assortment of mini-cars, a scifi-like gun immediately caught his eye under the section of 'water guns'. He picked it up, eyeing it with amusement. He checked the detector - yup, this was it. Glowing a sickly green on the mini monitor of his 'watch', the gun emitted strong waves of magical power.

It certainly didn't look powerful... more like a cheesy alien raygun from some low-budget scifi movie. Never the less, he carried it over to the counter, letting the elderly cashier ring him up on an old fashion register. He chuckled out his amusement as he dumped the $1.50 in change into the confused woman's hand. Magic bought cheap.

Hearing the rambunctious voices of the xiaolins outside of the entryway, he cast around for an exit. The house-made-store must have been extremely old, because it had an old fashion fireplace in the corner (a fireplace in the desert, go figure, though he supposed it _did_ get cold at night…). As the woman turned her attention towards the group of teens walking through the entryway, he dashed to, and straight in, the fireplace. Quickly, he sidled up to one side and braced his leg onto the opposite wall, lifting himself up and out of view. He could hear the muffled voices of the warriors through the ash-blackened bricks.

"Hey Gramma, you seen any suspicious looking guys come in here? Maybe with red hair, weirdo drawings on his face? Tacky black trench? Any 'o this ringing a bell?" the accented, snide voice of Pedrosa was heard. He snorted derisively. Sure, that was exactly how to go about gathering information – insulting the person that could help you. And his trench was not tacky!

He was often startled by how… _unpleasant_ the 'Good' side could be. They were definetely not all sunshine and daisies.

Apparently, the woman had the same thoughts. She replied stiffly, "I certainly have no idea what you mean, young man. Perhaps you should show a bit more respect for your elders."

Pedrosa snorted, "Whatever, old lady. C'mon, guys, he's not here."

The footsteps started across the floor, sounding farther away, but them the small, squeaky voice that was obviously Omi's spoke up,

"Wait, friends. I think I sense a presence nearby."

He stiffened, cursing the monk's tiger senses. He had been submitting myself to a rigorous bout of training lately (taught by his new 'Sensei-Bot') and had apparently built up enough strength to register on Omi's tiger senses. If he couldn't think on his feet, and fast, he was done for.

"That's quite enough, you young'uns! If you're not going to buy anything, then you must leave. Go on, get!"

_Little old lady to the rescue! _Thank God.

"You can come down now, dear. Those children are gone now." The lady's sweet voice called to him. He immediately let his leg, which were trembling from the strain of holding himself up, fall to the ground, and they almost crumpled beneath him. He grimaced as he felt his custom tailored trench coat scrap against the sooty walls of his hiding place. Climbing out into the dimly lit toy shop, he was faced with the woman's badly concealed laughter.

"What?" he asked, confused. The cashier didn't give a verbal reply, but dug into her pocket and held up a hand-held mirror for him to see himself in. The reason for his mirth was quite clear.

His normally flawless, porcelain white face was smudged thoroughly with black and gray soot, so much so that he looked like he had gone overboard with his usual make-up. Undoubtedly he was covered from head to foot in the stuff.

He huffed indignantly. And he had spent so long moisturizing this morning, too! Oh well. He turned his attention to the old woman, but she had vanished. Looking about himself curiously, he called tentatively to the empty room, "Um… ma'am? Are you here?"

"I'm in the back, dear! One moment!" Came a melodic voice from the back room. Waiting, for once not entirely impatient, he watched with confusion as the woman emerged with a doting smile creasing her aged face. She held out a damp washcloth.

"For you face."

He couldn't help but give her a thankful and somewhat roguish grin, quickly wiping down his sooty face. He handed the blackened cloth back to her. "Thanks, lady!"

"No problem at all, dearie. You have a good day, now." And she shooed him out of her store.

Eyes darting furiously up and down the abandoned roadway, he saw no sign of the Xiaolin brats. Sighing with what he realized was an embarrassing amount of relief, he relaxed just the slightest bit.

That was a mistake.

A piercing blow struck his turned back, thrusting him forward into the parched desert ground. He coughed and gasped for breath, sensing with absolute clarity that something was _in him_, and it needed to be out _right now_. Reaching painfully behind himself, he grasped the object protruding from his back and yanked sharply. He stared in disbelief at the bloody source of his pain.

An _arrow_.

They fucking _shot him_, with an _arrow_.

Wait… who? The Xiaolin, as nasty as they could often be, refused to use deadly force on they opponents. At least, consciously. He could recall plenty of times they had come close to killing him without realizing it.

But not like this. Never like this.

He turned in place slowly, lifting his head to discover the face of his attacker. Wuya stood confident and remorseless on the roof, a proud smirk on he face. Glancnig down at the arrow in his hand, he only just noticed it glowed an eerie green with supernatural energy. He nearly dropped it like a hot potato, but forced himself to hang onto it. He slipped it into his subtly. Magic, no matter how easy for him to track, was not easy to come across. This could be useful for his experiments – that is, if he could make it out of this alive.

"Wuya." He growled, simultaneously tensing his back muscles experimentally, checking for damage. The wound wasn't life threatening, missing all of his vital organs, and not even really penetrating that deep. The ancient witch was a lousy shot.

"Jaaaack…" The green haired devil purred, sounding almost like Katnappe for a moment. "How lovely to see you. Oh, did that hurt? So sorry, my hand just… slipped!"

Cue evil laughter.

He nearly rolled his eyes, but stopped himself. Even without magic, Wuya was a formidable opponent.

And of course… his eyes widened in horrified realization.

Where Wuya was…

"Hello, Jack." A smug voice sounded behind him.

Chase was too.

He barely muffled a girlish screech, hand instinctively reaching to his waistband where he had tucked his newest Wu-acquisition minutes before. Chase beat him to it by a mile, gloved hands gripping his thin wrists harshly, stretching them like a hand puppet's to either side of himself. The RaiDon Raygun went skittering across the desert floor, landing several meters away. He nearly whimpered, but managed to force out in a shaking voice,

"Wh-why are you here, Chase? I know you're not interested in the Wu, and I thought your whole bag was testing the Xioalin losers, not me."

"Oh, Jack," The overlord chuckled darkly into his ear, "your thought process is so simple. Can you not look towards the bigger scale? That is why you always fail at your world-conquering schemes – besides the fact that they are stupid. You think to small scale. In order to be big… you have to think big." His grip tightened painfully, and this time, Jack did whimper.

"But that's not why I came here today." His voice was now brisk. "I am intrigued by your newest project. You know the one of which I speak."

He felt himself stiffen in shock. "Project Faust? Why would you be interested in that? And better yet, why confront me here? You could've just come to my Lair."

"True. However, you have improved your security drastically as of late – protecting something, perhaps? Even with all my power, I did not want to risk using the force necessary to break through your security and damage your experiments. They could be useful to me. And you are a surprisingly hard person to get a hold of – you really must get out more, dear Jack." Even with his back turned, he could sense the immortal's smirk.

This, for some reason, enraged him. "Perhaps, then, _dear Chase,_ you should take your search _elsewhere_. Project Faust isn't for sale, and neither are my services. Not anymore. You made it perfectly clear in the past that you weren't interested in anything I have to offer, and that won't change now. I won't be used."

Chase looked shocked for a split second, but a dangerous smile soon overtook his angular face at his scathing retort. With false casualness, the everlord leaned his pointed chin on his slender shoulder, he breath tickling the bared skin of his neck. He could feel the razors-edge of a pointed fang touch lightly to the fragile tissue, in warning. "You should think twice before speaking so thoughtlessly to those more powerful than you. It could be… _detrimental_, to your health."

"I… I meant what I said." God, what was he _doing_? What had possessed him? "I won't take it back."

The dragon's voice darkened, and his clawed hand released one wrist to creep up and clutch around his throat tightly. "This new display of backbone is beginning to loose it's appeal. You will hand over all of your research on Project Faust, and continue to do so until I _tell you otherwise_."

What was this daring feeling that was overcoming him? He had never felt so… brave. Perhaps it was because, despite their positions, he knew he had the advantage in this battle. Chase obviously wanted his new project, for some unfathomable reason, and wouldn't damage him until he got his hands on it.

He couldn't let that happen.

He forced a confident smirk onto his face and his hand shot up to reveal a tiny red button strapped to the center of his palm. He could practically taste Chase's wary curiosity.

"Did you really think I would meddle in something so dangerous without a backup plan? It's kind of poetic, even – you're like my Mephistopheles. But I won't be consumed by my work! You harm out hair on my head, and I'll press this little red button, and destroy all on my work!"

The immortal's voice now held an almost undetectable undercurrent of uncertainty. "You wouldn't dare. I know from a reliable source that you've been working on this 'secret project' for at least three years! You, obsessive little thing you are, wouldn't just throw away all that hard work."

A knowing chuckle bubbled over his lips. "You underestimate both my genius, wonderful and vast that it is, and my obsessive tendencies. If you think I couldn't bare to loose my work, you'd be right – which is why I've committed every text, schematic and data file to memory."

Chase's undignified gasp was music to his ears. He jauntily poked at his crimson-haired temple.

"It's all squirreled away in here. So, if you want the nut, you'll have to crack the shell! Want to give it a try?"

He was enjoying this way too much.

"As entertaining as the squirrel puns may be, Spicer, I will not yield on this matter. If I cannot obtain what I want from you…"

That large, callused hand slide down the column of his neck, over his shoulder to rest at the junction that connected his arm to his torso. Against his will, he left out a violent shiver as the implications set in.

"Then I will have to take something else from you."

He clutched desperately to his last remaining thread of hope and composure. "Y-you're bluffing. I may not be fast, but I can push this button faster than you can cleave through flesh and bone."

The overlord's tone was silk covered steel, dripping with poisonous sweetness.

"Would you like to bet on that?"

No. No he would not.

Could not.

He could practically feel his defenses crumbling and suppressed a sigh. It would always be like this.

"…Okay, Chase. Fine – " He cut himself off with an agonized scream as pain exploded from his arm, drowning out all other sensation in a blinding flash of white-hot agony. His shoulder was on fire, as if an invisible hand had shoved a thousand burning needles into his flesh. Chase had jumped away at the last second, but his startled gasp echoed eerily in his mind as he tried desperately to block out the pain.

Blearily aware that he was still emitting pathetic little whimpering noises as he rocked himself back and forth, cradling his injured shoulder, he looked up at the source of his pain.

Wuya stood with the RaiDon Raygun held loftily in front of her, a vicious grin on her face.

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End Flashback

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"_**Wuya!**_"

Chase's enraged snarl cracked through the encompassing silence that had overtaken the desert air. The monks, who had arrived only moments before, looked sickened by the blood pooling around his feet. One of the even seemed to be throwing up.

The witch looked startled and puzzled over the dragon's reaction. She waved the deadly Wu with careless grace in front of herself, saying in a indifferent voice, "What's with the fit, Young? I only did what you were threatening to do – the worm was being a bit to uppity for my comfort."

The immortal's yellow eyes glowed with fury as he advanced on the now nervous Wuya.

"I was _bluffing_, you fool! He was about to submit to me without a fight! Now, even if I can manage to re-attach his arm, any and all trust in me will have been lost! You complete and utter _fool!_"

His gloved hand latched onto her throat as it had his own moments before, choking all air from the Heylin's windpipe and forcing her to splutter for breath. Chase's shouts gave way to a furious hiss.

"If I ever find you interfering with that which belongs to _me_, I will _personally_ see to it that you never live to breathe this sweet air again. _Do you understand me?_"

At Wuya's frantic nods, he effortlessly threw the witch before him, watching stonily as she collided with a 'crack!' with a stone jutting from the earth.

He turned urgently around to find the monk's attending to his injured prize, desparately attempting to stem the flow of crimson life gushing from his stump at the shoulder.

Jack stared with horrified eyes at what was left of his limb on the desert floor before shifting to look up at the source to the shadow being cast upon him. Chase Young loomed over him with uncommonly soft eyes, and kneeled before him.

They're almost like molten gold, he thought vaguely as he was lifted up into the immortal's arms, nestled against the shining armor warmed by the midday sun. He could feel the sickening weight of his missing limb placed gently on his stomach, and clutched onto it convulsively, as if holding it would make it part of him again. He was hardly aware as the agony in his arm, or what had previously been his arm, was soothed away as if my a magic invisible hand.

However, he was very aware of the deep, quiet voice that whispered in his ear a command to rest.

He obeyed.

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This is something that has been sitting in the back on my Docs for months. I finally got around to paying some attention to it, seeing as I seem to have incurable writer's block for "The Porcelain Child" at the moment. (Don't worry, despite my pessimism, I haven't abandoned it. I'll continue to try and write through the block.)

I am prone to very short chapters, so to get out of the habit, I won't post the next chapter until it is at least 2,000 words long. This may take a while, but I have the plot reasonably far planned ahead, so I will eventually post. Please, try to be patient. This is just another step for me towards becoming a respectable writer.

Anyway, I hope this get a favorable response.

I will personally respond to any and all reviews I get. Constructive criticism is appreciated and will be taken into account in all my future writing.

I will not respond to any flames, so don't bother writing them, especially concerning my slash content.

SS


	2. The Moving Finger

**Title:** Lost and Found

**Chapter:** Two – The Moving Finger

**Author:** ScathingSarcasm

**Pairings/Characters:** Chack

**Rating**: M

**Disclaimer:** I do not own XS or related characters. Nor do I own Omar Khayya'm's "Rubaiyat".

**Warnings:** Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH. Short but mature cursing in this chapter.

**Word Count:** 2187

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The alter stood with it's back straight an proud in the center of the room, adorned with lines of glowing black script that told of things indecipherable and inconceivable, spilling outward over the marble floors like a spiraling whirlpool of ink. In the center, there lay a young boy, paler even that the cold and shining marble he rested upon, his crimson locks splayed over the smooth surface like a fiery halo. His eyes closed peacefully, long white lashes fanned over plump cheeks, he would have almost appeared to be simply asleep; however, the ghastly wound that tore his shoulder disillusioned the watcher, as did the absence of one of, elegant limb. Something utterly and undoubtedly wrong had happened; a shift had taken place, jerking the world violently out from under his feet, and he felt bereft of understanding, for once in his exceedingly long lifetime.

Then again, he supposed pouring all of your accumulated magiks and energies into the restoration of a boy he supposedly didn't even like could shift one's perspective a bit.

As it stood, the bleeding had just barely stopped, and he was becoming increasingly aware that the Heylin's particular brand of (dark, evil, unholy) magik was exceedingly ill equipped for healing. So much so, he realized with a startling amount of dread, that there was not even the slightest chance that Jack Spicer's arm could be restored. The only way that could happen was if he took the boy to the Xiaolin Temple. There was no doubt in his mind that, even without the added bonus of the guilt that was crushing the young monks, the older monk would heal Spicer without hesitation. One of the duties of being a "good guy", he supposed.

But a lingering though nudged at the corners of his mind, spearing his immortal heart with indecision. The Jack Spicer that he had known; the foolish, naïve child that would scream out to a crowded room that he was _evil_, desperately trying to convince both them and himself that it was the truth, would have gladly gone crawling to the monks for help, begged their assistance on hand and knee. However, the Jack Spicer of just a few short hours ago… his softly maturing jaw clenched, petal-soft pink lips set into a serious frown, and furious carmine eyes glaring defiantly over a black-clad shoulder at him, never hesitating, only backing down when it was clear that he had been defeated. That Jack Spicer would never even contemplate asking his enemy for help, was hard and unrelenting as stone. He didn't know when the young wannabe-villain had decided to grow up, but he would make a valuable ally. Or a formidable enemy.

He glanced up at the prone form that lay prostrate before him on the altar, rather like a virgin sacrifice, he noted with considerable amusement. His gaze shifted more towards calculating as his golden eyes scanned over the pale, shirtless chest, small pink nipples perked with the coolness of the room and stomach smooth and soft from a mix of genetics and a lack of exercise. He consciously avoided the right side, even as he attempted to remind himself that his age was into the quadruple digits, and he shouldn't be acting so childish. He was well aware of what a severed limb looked like, having lopped of a fair number of them in his own time. He didn't need to look to see in his mind's eye the torn and jagged flesh, the circular nub of bone, and ruddy blood staining the flesh, which, contrary to popular opinion, was actually more of a burgundy than a crimson. A dark shield of magik emanated from the stump of flesh, shot through with streams of earthy green light that knitted together to repair the damaged cells. He turned his attention to the abandoned limb that lay steeped in a tub of purifying herbs, set comfortingly close to it's owner's side as if to give the illusion that it was still in it's rightful place.

It was now clear that he, of his own power, would not be able to restore Spicer's arm to him. There was no point in keeping the thing around; it was no long a part of Jack Spicer, and thus no longer valuable to him. However, he carefully set the severed arm in a separate dish and incinerated it in a blast of power, sealing the remaining ashes in a bottle for safekeeping. Not only was it unwise to leave your flesh or blood lying about, for fear of the spells any decent sorcerer could accomplish with them, but he didn't know what Spicer would prefer. Many religions maintained that a person must be buried with their entire body intact to ascend to the afterlife, and though he hadn't though it important at the time, he realized that he knew almost nothing about Jack Spicer's background. Not his religion, family, nationalization, the location of his dwelling or even his sexual preference! …Not that that last one was relevant. Still, he resolved to research of this information at his earliest convenience. For posterity's sake.

Shaking the cluttering thoughts from his head, he lifted a gloved hand to cup the gentle curve of the pale youth's cheek, bare of his eyeliner-drawn signature mark. Wuya's offense was his responsibility to bare; his former ally had done irreversible harm to something that was not her's to damage. Jack had always been the property of Chase Young, whether his owner was willing or not. The consequences of that damage were his to bare, and he resolved to himself that this would not be the end of Jack Spicer.

This would be the beginning.

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The first thing that his mind registered was the feeling of laying on a warm, yielding surface, his body sleep-heavy, numb and totally at easy. He was barely aware of himself, suspended in that half-awake, half-asleep state of being where all you could think of was the steady buzzing in your ears, and how comfortable you were. He couldn't seem to pry open his eyelids, which felt like they had lead weights included free with purchase. Coherency evaded him, and yet he couldn't help but feel there was something odd about this situation; more often than not, he ended up sleeping hunched over his newest invention, dark bags under his eyes and an unattractive stream of drool dripping from his chin. Actually making it bed was a rarity, and even if he managed that, his bed was not nearly as comfortable as this one. His was barely more than a cot, kept in a room directly adjacent to the Lair (basement) door. After sorting through the dozens of security measures and codes to actually get to and from his house to his Lair, he often barely had the energy to take off his shoes before flopping down on the old army-cot and passing out from exhaustion. It was far from healthy, but then, he hardly led a healthy life, between the monks trying to throw him off of buildings every couple of days and his own toxic cooking threatening to steal it's creator's life away like one of the many inventions he…invented.

A thought stuck in his head that he couldn't shake. The monks… monks… a showdown? No, more unexpected – a surprise. A Wu was involved… the most recent one, the one he'd had to haul his ass out to the desert for. He remembered being disappointed, because it was some sort of cheap rip-off Wu… oh. The RaiDon Raygun. Barely worth the effort, really, especially when Chase showed up, and… Wuya…

Wuya.

…He cut himself off with an agonized scream as pain exploded from his arm, drowning out all other sensation in a blinding flash of white-hot agony. His shoulder was on fire, as if an invisible hand had shoved a thousand burning needles into his flesh…

He shot up with a gasp, letting loose a tiny whimper as pain filtered into his consciousness through the haze of what he now realized to be drugs, not sleep; someone had plied him with a sedative. He dared not look down at his right side, but he didn't need to.

He felt the emptiness.

He had never really thought about his arms before. Sure, e used them everyday, but he viewed them with no more or less value than any other part of his body; which was to say, not very much at all. When you're surrounded by machines, build machines that can outdo that human body a thousand times over, and never eat, sleep or get distracted by emotion or injury, you tend to loose appreciation for your own flesh. Now, though, he felt it's loss keenly, as he tried to awkwardly pull himself up to a seated position, one-handed and clumsy.

He also felt a burning hatred for a certain ancient witch. Wuya would pay dearly for what she had taken from him.

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He was aware the very moment Jack regained consciousness, but decided to give him time to gain his bearings and come to terms with his… new physical state of being. Monitoring spells would warn him if the boy managed to harm himself, but he doubted that highly. Despite the young genius' newfound courage, within his mind was engrained a deep sense of self-preservation. That wasn't a bad thing by any means – it made Jack a survivor. That survival instinct would save his neck in the future.

Standing from a long bout of lounging on his throne, he stretched luxuriously before walking in the direction of the room he had appointed his captive patient. He had an injured, confused and most likely homicidal young genius is tend to.

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Spicer was sitting up when he entered the dimly lit room, but obviously knew his limits well enough to refrain from taxing himself further, for he lay passive and quiet against the headboard, only looking up calmly when he cleared his throat. His carmine eyes were serene – too serene, especially for someone who had just gotten his dominant arm shot off with a laser. Mentally shrugging, he decided to test the extent of this newfound inner peace. If Spicer was going to have a psychological breakdown, it would be more convenient for him if they got it over with early on. Then they could get down to business.

Fixing onto his face a condescending sneer, he barked to the bedridden genius,

"What, exactly, do you have to be so happy about, Spicer?"

Those vexing eyes gave a slow blink, and the smallest of frowns painted Spicer's lips. "I'm not quite sure what you mean, Chase. I'm no particular amount of happy or sad right now."

"That makes little sense, considering the rather… piteous hand fate has dealt you recently."

"The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit, Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all you Tears wash out a Word of it." Jack quoted flippantly, and his remaining slender hand waving through the air as if to ward off an annoying thought. "There's no point in dwelling on the past, now is there?"

"Hmm…" he found himself murmuring doubtfully, "As enjoyable as I find having 'Rubaiyat' quoted at me, I'm in no manner of mood for poetry. Do you honestly expect me to believe you are not fazed in the slightest at having your arm shorn off by a… 'beloved enemy'?"

The albino snorted incredulously. "I never said that. I'm fucking devastated inside. Of course, I'm angry, and of course I'm hurt. But I've decided not to let those burdens drag me down."

Despite feeling in his heart a disturbing sense of pride, he pushed it away and forced himself to laugh nastily, "Oh, have you now? And what do you plan to do to assuage these _heart-wrenching_ feelings?"

"Channel them into something productive, of course." The youth replied simply, and failed to elaborate, even under the considerable influence of his disgruntled stare. He allowed the subject to rest as a reward for the boy's bravery.

"I don't suppose you still have my arm, do you?"

"…_What?_ What do you want to do, save it as a keepsake?" he asked, completely thrown for a loop.

The teen flapped a hand, pointedly his left one, again, looking slightly impatient, "No, of course not! I would be useful for measurements, though. Plus, I've never actually gotten a chance to dissect a real human arm… I don't suppose you have my heli-pack, do you? I'll need to call some transport over here so I can get to work…"

He found himself spluttering, for the first time in several hundred years.

"Wh-what are you talking about?!"

Spicer just looked at him strangely.

"I'm going to build myself another arm, of course."

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A/N: I hoped you enjoyed the second chapter. Feedback is always welcomed.

You'll notice that the slash hints become more pronounced in this chapter; they will continue to do so, so if you are against this, please just hit the back button rather than enlightening me of the "evils" of homosexuality. I will email you a smexy, X-rated detailed and VERY gay lemon if you do so. Thank you.

Please continue checking in for more! Hits and reviews are my blood.

-SS


	3. Finding Faith and Freedom Denied

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**Title:** Lost and Found

**Chapter:** Three – Finding Faith and Freedom Denied

**Author:** ScathingSarcasm

**Pairings/Characters:** Chack

**Rating**: M

**Disclaimer:** I do not own XS or related characters, nor do I own the Linkin Park song "Valentine's Day".

**Warnings:** Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH.

**Word Count: **2987

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"_My insides all turned to ash, so slow…_"

A soft, melodic voice drifted from the open doorway, caressing his pointed ears like a gentle spring breeze before floating away into the cavernous recesses of his mountain lair. This was one habit that he could not bring himself to mind; as the Spicer boy worked, he sang. And while the pounding death metal of the boy's youth grated his nerves, he seemed to have reverted to far more pleasant (i.e. tolerable) music.

"_And blew away as I collapsed, so cold…_"

And, apparently, far gloomier, though the genius's demeanor was far from such, and often his tastes in music were as varied as his moods, and his knowledge. To the contrary, Jack Spicer was the very epitome of cheerful purpose these days. As soon as he was deemed fit to leave his bed, Spicer has retrieved his ridiculous helicopter-device and withdrawn from it what appeared to be a home-made walky-talky, with which he called upon his Jack-Bot (the one he addressed was called "JB-783") to pick him up.

He had, of course, immidiately refused.

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"B-but Chase…!" the younger man's eyes pleaded with him, their garnet color shining and pouted lips quivering imploringly as he begged the warlord to let him go.

He would not be swayed. "Absolutely not, Spicer. As you were injured while technically under my guard, I am bound be my honor to see to your well being. You are my responsibility."

The boy's expression darkened, as did those captivating eyes, morphing into an unsettling crimson.

"And that is the only reason, Chase. _Honor_. If you were doing this out of any true feeling or value for my safety, I would gladly stay with you. But protection without protectiveness doesn't sit well with me, nor will it sit well with you, if you would spare the time to think of it."

He threatening growl escaped him dispite himself. "Do not presume to know the inner workings of my mind, child, _do not_. Your ignorance, your _presumption_ has worn on me since the moment I met you, Jack Spicer, and you will find, if you spare the time to think of it, that your tongue will betray you one day."

The albino youth had paled, but the stubbornly knowing gleam in his eyes had yet to cease.

"You have forgotten already, Chase, your vow to keep me from harm? Do you abandon your precious honor so easily? Or perhaps you're just afraid of the truth!"

"YOU KNOW _NOTHING_ OF THE TRUTH!" he roared, and the very foundations of his fortress trembled at it's owner's might. He quieted his voice, but it's soft, dark rumble was no less frightening that it's roar.

"The truth, Spicer, is that while the general public may not be privy to my feelings, they do exist. Most ardently. And though honor plays a large part in my interest in your safety, it is not the only reason."

He cupped the boy's pale cheek, smoothing one clawed, callused thumb over the flawless alabaster skin it found. His eyeliner-rimmed orbs, which had lightened to a terrified cerise as his outburst, shifted color once more in his curiosity. His thin (overly so, his mind supplied in an annoyingly worried manner,) body relaxed against the bare presence of his own, dispite having just been thoroughly yelled at.

"I have a… personal investment in your safety."

The slim body before him tensed, and his breath shortened as if he had just been told something of a considerably more threatening nature. Slowly, hesitantly, the boy lifted a porcelain hand, and for a moment he thought he was about to be hugged enthusiastically, as the boy was (or used to be, as the case may be,) prone to do. However, even as he braced himself to be tackled with a physical demonstration of affection, he was relieved by the feel of slim fingers and a warm palm resting on his forearm.

"Thank you." Spicer voiced, contentment painting his smooth words, making his remaining anger dissipate completely. "I am sorry to have caused you any…" he paused, and the unvoiced 'worry' hung in the air before them, almost making him want to deny it. "…undue discomfort. It's just that, dispite the luxury here, which I am not ungrateful for, I assure you, I feel most comfortable in my lab. All of my tools, my bots, and just the atmosphere… my Lair is my home. I… I need to recover, I need to rebuild." The pale boy connected their gazes, and his entire being exuded a need for understanding. Dispite his strong front; and not just a front, but a strong _nature_ – he was damaged in a way that would take time to heal. "I just… don't know if I can do that here, Chase."

Overcoming his pride for a moment, he placed a gloved hand on the genius's crimson tresses and released a sigh. "Jack, you have to understand that dispite the technology and admittedly formidable defenses of your dwelling, you are at you most vulnerable right now. The ancient magiks of my fortress can keep you far out of harms way. I cannot in good conscience allow you to go." Jack's disappointment was almost palpable.

He spared the smallest tilt of his lips at the boy who had so caught his attention.

"However… I will try my best to make you as comfortable as possible here. As you have already conceded that you will research the contents of Project Faust for me…" at this point he glared pointedly at the boy, daring him to protest. He wisely remained silent. "…You will move all of your tools and experiments to the quarters I appoint you, and recover as fully as possible. _Before_ resuming your work."

Jack sighed wearily, but didn't argue on the matter of Project Faust. Obviously, he considered the construction of his new arm of more importance at the moment, and after closely examining his own emotions, he was surprised to find that he agreed. Though Project Faust was undoubtedly the most revolutionary and amazing feat Jack had, and most likely ever would accomplish, the longer the boy was so dangerously crippled, the more ground they would loose. Still, Jack was far from useless in his current state; though he had lost his dominant arm, he quickly and efficiently engaged his JackBots to act as replacements for his lost mobility. Soon, dozens of JackBots were racing about the large antechamber he had appointed the albino, arranging large and complicated looking equipment from the sleek black hovermobile that had arrived from Jack's lab. All the items pertaining to Project Faust were kept under the veil of a black canvass; Jack insisted that they 'weren't ready yet', and he had decided to humor the boy. All that was visible was the general shape of the objects; some sort of cylindrical tube, and a very small, nondescript box.

Jack rested in what apparently was his favorite spinny chair; though he could still function, his balance was severely altered, and he was not prone to stumbling about the room in an attempt to stay grounded. After the fourth time catching the boy inches from the ground and watching him stutter and blush like a schoolgirl, though amusing, he had firmly sat the boy down and forbidden him to move unless absolutely necessary. Now, he rattled off orders in some unintelligible form of code; though there were bits and pieces he could understand, the majority of it was lost on his technology-deprived mind.

"...JB-401, transport object 009, 14.32 degrees northwest, rotation 90 degrees, JB-921, assist. JB-089, JB-354, JB-732, strength override code: 18537081, Hercules. Caution, fragility level 75, transport object 021 FAUST to ChaseLair section I (50, 50). JB-242, transport…"

It dragged on and on, until eventually Jack paused in his diatribe to turn his head around, gazing curiously at him.

"Uh-um… Chase, you don't really have to sit around and watch this…" far from appearing comfortable in his own element as he had expected, settling back into his role as 'technology geek' seemed to have zapped Jack of all his newfound confidence; he was surprised to find that the change was not a welcome one on his part. He shook his head resolutely.

"No, Spicer. I plan to retire to my final meal as soon as everything is in place here, and you will join me."

He seemed shocked, but did not question him. He only turned around, barked out several rapid-fire orders and then called out in a voice carried out to the corners of his new 'lab',

"JB-1, please step forward."

A single JackBot emerged from the woodwork, his design more childish and worn than the newer, sleeker models of his counterparts. Yet, the other JackBots parted with great respect for the old machine, which glided forward with no less grace than any bot that came after him. Unlike the generic glowing red eyes of the bots JB-2 and onward, JB-1 possessed artificial eyes of a wizened green, which seemed to hold far more life than those of the soulless red around him.

JB-1's ancient voicebox crackled with age as it reported with a strict, "Yessir!"

"Manage all the proceedings according to my liking; I want all of the contents of Project Faust separate and under full lockdown, as well as a separate workstation for the construction of my new limb. Also, get me a direct connection with the Pentagon – DARPA, subsection L, Operative 43. Tell him Jack is cashing in his favor, and to expect my call."

"Yessir!"

The young man turned back to him, struggling up with barely concealed difficulty from his chair and striding over to his place at his side, awkward smile fixed in place upon pale pink lips. "I'm ready. Dinner, you said?"

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Dinner, for the most part, was a quiet affair; the lavish spread of foods that Jack had never even heard of before, let alone tasted kept them both relatively busy, and as it turned out Chase was a somewhat ravenous eater. He concentrated solely on the food before him, and though his manners were impeccable, he ate at a moderately fast pace, his choices mostly consisting of various meats. The only instance he paid Jack any mind throughout the duration of the meal was when the small genius mustered up the courage to voice, in a timid tone, a question about some rather dubious looking pink meat that sat on a silver platter before him. Chase only grinned in a mysterious and frighteningly ominous manner, saying nothing. This, of course, forced his hand as his surprisingly large amount of pride reared it's head, and he ripped off a chunk of the unknown meat-substance. It turned out to be sweet and tender, but he never _did_ find out just exactly what animal it originated from. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Only when he had swallowed the last bite of his dessert, which he noted in a half perturbed and half pleased manner was pudding, though far better quality than his standard off-the-shelf pudding cups, did the overlord speak.

"Now the we are both fed and watered, I must request that you tell me everything you have discovered with you research in Project Faust."

Though it was worded as a request, Jack sensed the thinly veiled demand behind it. However, having already conceded, he only sighed. At this point, all he wanted to do was understand Chase's motivations – why was he _doing_ this?

"Alright. As you can no doubt tell from it's title, I guess you could call Project Faust as my attempt at immortality." Chase did not appear stunned, in fact he showed no outward reaction at all, but Jack never the less held up his hand as if to stave off a derisive snort or something of the like. "Yes, I know it's cliché, but it is something that is essential for me, considering the weakness of my body and the strength of my enemies. If I can achieve this, I will have all the time I need to become however strong I need to be. I've seen the future, where I rule with an iron fist, and yet I was old, decrepit. Like an obsolete piece of machinery."

He was unaware of the utter loathing that burned in his crimson eyes, but to chase, it shone like a beacon of light in the dim confines of his dining chamber.

"I was startled, then, at the overwhelming urge I had to wipe my alternate self from this earth. All of my enemies lay defeated, confined and crippled, but I still hadn't gained the resolve to strike them down for good. For all of the control I had over them, even you, Chase, I was still, ultimately, weak as I am now." A hint of a growl seeped into his monotone voice, coloring it with a wavering, shaky anger that illustrated his point better than any action ever could. "I had gained _nothing_."

The albino took a deep breath, calming himself and unclenching his remaining fist where it had rumpled the fine crimson tablecloth. He absently smoothed it down again as he continued, avoiding the immortal's eyes with an air of vague, absent inattention. A long pause, heavy with silence, stretched between them, and just as the overlord was about to break it with an impatient demand to continue, Jack resumed his emotionless narration.

"It was then I realized what I had to do. In that future, the world had decayed under my rule; that was not something I ever wanted, Chase." He looked up, making contact with Chase's golden gaze. His own was filled with a desperate message, a plead for understanding, and also, a firm resolve. "I won't allow that to happen this time around, Chase. I won't let this world decay with my weakness. I'll be… _undefeatable_."

The young man's crimson eyes shone with the blazing heat of the sun, wild and uncontrollable, as unconquerable as he claimed to be, and for a moment, Chase believed him.

Immidiately, be buried that notion; he had taken Spicer under his roof to _protect_ him, and to train him to become his worthy minion, not to become a minion himself. As he remained silent, the moment passed, and though the fire in Spicer's eyes lay dormant, sleeping – it never disappeared. Finally, he broke the silence with a pointed, "You have of yet to answer by question. What, exactly, _is_ Project Faust, and how would it help you obtain immortality?"

With that, the frail genius launched into a full out explanation, abandoning his introspective, deep mood in favor of a more efficient, factual air.

"Project Faust is, in simple terms, a sort of vaccine that protects against all forms of decay and damage; most prevalently, the decay of human cells as a human grows older, and the damage those cells take as they are injured. The elements that make up the vaccine as somewhat like advanced antibodies; they adapt the physiological process of creating immunological memories that enable the body to fight off pathogens that infect the human body, which takes care of the dangers of dying via disease. In the beginning, I had though I would be forced to seek out samples of every disease known to man, which would probably take me the rest of my life anyway, but eventually I settled on a different route. I gathered samples of the strongest cases of a particular disease for each major type of ailment; cancer, musculoskeletal, cardiovascular, urogenital, respiratory, infectious, metabolic and gastrointestinal diseases, as well as examples from several sub-categories. Using these as a basis, I created something of a super-vaccine, one that protected me from virtually everything…"

"…except age." Chase finished for him, clarity finally emerging from the previous confusion.

Jack sighed and ran one long fingered hand through his think red locks, looked very much the part of a frustrated scientist. "Yes. That aspect, I have barely scratched the surface of. You'll notice that I haven't been going out to the showdowns recently… or maybe not." He said uncertainly, averting his eyes with crippling embarrassment.

"I had," the ebony-haired warrior murmured, not changing his tone at all, "but since the Wu preceding your absences were not particularly valuable or powerful, I had not thought it a cause for concern." He failed voice that if the Wu had been powerful, he would be concerned.

"…Yes, well… anyway," Jack's tone became brisk and businesslike to mask his wavering confidence. "I was preoccupied with what I thought was a break in my research, but it turned out to be a dead end. I had hoped that the new Wu might help in some way, since for some reason they seem to have awfully convenient timing when it comes to my life, but I ended up with the RaiDon Raygun instead…" he smiled ruefully, "I guess the Wu _was_ convenient, for Wuya."

"Spicer!" Chase barked, slamming a hand onto the table with a rare loss of composure, "sulking will not got you anywhere at this point. You have the means to make yourself a new arm; and as of a few minutes ago, I thought you had the resolve. Will you prove me wrong?"

"No." Jack was quiet, but strong and determined. Even though he remained seated, his presence in that instance seemed larger than life.

"I'll be stronger than you will believe, Chase. Just you wait."

Again, though Chase tried and failed to suppress it, faith welled up in his chest like a geyser from cold, dead ground. He believed in Jack Spicer.

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Well, there's chapter three; I hope you all enjoyed. So far I've been keeping up to my quota, this chapter being 2987 words long, so I'm pretty pleased. I realize that both of them are noticeably OOC, but y'know what? It's fanfiction, so I've got an excuse. Yay.

A huge 'thanks' to Jeannie, who was kind enough to point out a monumental fk up on my part. Love you!

I'd love some feedback, so don't be shy! Hopefully, you'll be seeing more of this soon.

-SS


	4. Collapse and Admittance

**Title:** Lost and Found

**Chapter:** Four – Collapse and Admittance

**Author:** ScathingSarcasm

**Pairings/Characters:** Chack

**Rating**: M

**Disclaimer:** I do not own XS or related characters – and obviously I don't own DARPA or the American Government. O.o

**Warnings:** Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH.

**Word Count: **2498

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"… I want to adapt those experimental electronic 'nerves' that you've been developing – I'll need enough for the normal teenage male muscle weight of a human arm, as well as some extra. I'll also need some of that synthetic skin, and a large sample of the new metal alloy, the one with advanced flexibility and tensile strength, some thin, one thousand PSI-tested metal wires and a decent supply of enriched uranium as well as the proper handling equipment, _and put it in a sealed unit,_ remember that. Think you can manage all of that?"

The blond man suspended on the screen before him shifted nervously too and fro, sweat dripping down his chubby face, his obnoxiously orange fake tan paling to a sickly creamsicle color in his anxiety. Operative 43 could not be said to be a handsome man, and his rat-like, shifty-eyed nature and considerable paunch eliminated any charm his high salary might have lent him. Swiping a damp palm against his sauce-speckled labcoat, the scientist nodded, beady blue eyes staring back through the webcam feed.

Jack had been smart enough to make the video a one way feed, so 43 could only hear him, as well as bug-proofing his equipment and making it untraceable; as complacent as Chase seemed to be towards him now, he doubted he would get away with exposing the location of his lair to the Pentagon. It would no doubt end in much unpleasantry for him, and anyone within a ten-mile radius.

"Y-Yeah… I mean, yes, Muh-Mr. Spicer. I'll get those to you right away. Um… where should I forward them?" the man rubbed his sausage-like fingers together, eager to please and undeniably disgusting. Jack barely restrained a grimace.

"Load the materials into a mid-sized transport-storage unit, but make sure that the uranium doesn't leak! If I die of radiation poisoning, I'll make sure you pay a thousand times over. Got it?" Jack growled, the phantom pains zinging through his non-existent right arm making his mood vicious and unforgiving. The older man squeaked, frightened, and nodded frantically. "Good."

Now shaking uncontrollably, Op.43 opening and closed his mouth several times, giving a fair impression of a fish, before the young genius decided to put him out of his misery and snapped, "What?!"

"Well, M-Mr. Spicer, sir, a-about th-th-that uranium…"

"Yeeeees?"

He swallowed spasmodically. "Ah-I… don't know if I'll be able to obtain it for you. T-they keep it under strict surveillance, a-and if I get caught…"

"Oh, Operative 43…" the saccharine sweetness of Jack's voice froze the overweight scientist's heart with terror and foreboding, "Did I _ask_ you how you would do it?"

When the silence stretched on long enough that the chubby man knew he must answer, he stuttered, "N-no, sir."

"Did I express even the slightest inkling of concern for the consequences you may encounter?"

"No, sir."

"Have you forgotten the _favor_ you _owe _me, Michael?"

"NO! No, of course, not, I could never…!" he babbled pleadingly, fat tears rolling down his pathetic visage as he denied what was said.

"Good." The redhead repeated, satisfied and smirking domineeringly, though the expression was lost on the scientist, who could only cringe from Jack's frigid voice. "Then you will find a way. I expect the materials packaged and ready for pick up my midnight on Friday."

Operative 43 just nodded his hung head defeatedly.

"Don't fail me." _Or else._

The screen clicked into blackness.

Jack sighed at the empty monitor, his one thin, pale hand massaging his high cheekbones vigorously. Keeping his face screwed up in that ominous, serious expression so long made it cramp – he couldn't understand how Chase and that crazy bean did it! Spinning around on his most favored wheely chair, he turned his back on the conversation and focused on the blueprints before him – or "redprints", as the ink was a lurid fire engine red, as were most of his signature inventions, along with his black and gold, of course. Blue was such a mundane color – everyone's favorite color was blue. And Jack Spicer was anything but mundane. As it stood, the redprints were only half-completed – and already ridiculously complicated. Their state of incompletion was mostly due to the fact that Jack couldn't stop adding on new and increasingly violent additions to his arm's design – and subsequently drifting off into a daydream about how he would use said violent additions of a certain evil old hag. This was significantly effecting his time management, which was already lacking to begin with; it needed to be addressed. Taking a little time now to examine himself now would ultimately be the smart, economically sound decision.

Settling himself more comfortably in his seat, he began his own personalized "systems check", one that he normally used when he ran into the bane of every young genius; 'inventor's block'. As opposed to his usual "after battle" system's check (a quick limb count, anything broken, bruises, cuts, scrapes, etcetera etcetera), this was more… goal-oriented, so to speak.

_What can I do to make this situation more convenient for me?_

Even after all of his epic 'transformations', his sense of self-preservation was still firmly intact. Chuckling quietly to himself, he allowed his mind to fall back into contemplation in the darkness of his sleeping laboratory, the soft whirring of his machines lulling him to peace.

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When he entered the calm serenity of his inner courtyard, nothing was capable of disturbing him. The very second his bare feet touched the lushness of the emerald grass, it was as if his entire body transformed. He became as light as air, as fluid as water, solid as a stone pillar and as agile as a lilting flame. That was one concept that he had always felt the monks has tossed aside; to be a truly skilled warrior, one must obtain a perfect balance of all four elements within them selves. Concentrating on one specific aspect of one's nature gave you such a narrow-minded view of the world.

Jack Spicer, he realized with a jolt of unsuspected knowledge, was the perfect example of balance. It was not only in his talents, but in his nature; Jack was both utterly predictable, and outlandish to a fault. While one could certainly preconceive that Jack, if snuck up on from behind, would scream like a frightened prepubescent girl-child. However, after he had finished screaming, he now realized that when Jack turned around, he would most likely to have some sort of souped-up layzer gun at hand, ready to dispatch anyone in his way.

He sighed with uncharacteristic frustration, unsuccessful in his attempt to shake the thought of his new resident from his mind. It was bad enough that he found himself unable to stop checking up on the albino at least once a day in his newly deemed Lair, but now, fleeting phantasms of crimson hair and porcelain skin haunted him in his free time, as well! It was obvious that he would attain no peace until whatever issue haunting him was resolved. An issue involving Jack Spicer.

The calmness that meditation normally brought left him with naught a thought towards his pleasure or will; the fates, it seemed, were conspiring against him. Even in Spicer's newly-competent and tolerable form, he was far from what Chase would call good company. He had a strong notion that under more suitable circumstances, without the undeniable stress of rebuilding his own arm and being uprooted from his usual dwelling, the young genius would have made for a pleasant companion on a quiet evening such as this.

As it stood, though, he was petulant and easily irritable; though he refrained from outright rudeness towards his keeper, (whether out of fear or respect, he couldn't tell,) the thin veneer of politeness failed to mask that subtle strains and cracks in that boy's demeanor. Even with the help of countless JackBots at his disposal, the sheer intellectual work that needed to be mired through was no doubt getting to the boy. Meanwhile, the fact remained that the building of the albino's new arm was a time-sensitive project. While the genius toiled away on it's design, precious time was slipping away from him; the wound healed over, scar tissue formed a spider web of white flesh over the sickening surface of what once was a living, warm blooded limb. Chase didn't know for certain what Jack was doing to keep the socket clean and clear of scar tissue and open for the arrival of his new appendage; but in the dead of night, his feline warriors sometimes reported that flashes of unnatural red light and the sounds of horrible, bloodcurdling screams arose from the entryway to Jack's lab, detectable only by their sensitive ears. His imagination could pick up the slack.

Before he could surrender to further musings on his young guest, said albino entered, draped limply over the back of a very disgruntled tiger. Shooting up to his feet, he was at the feline's side in a flash, harshly demanding as to what was wrong with the teen, dread like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach as he saw, over and over again in his mind, Jack standing, slightly triumphant look still lingering on his face, then Jack falling, expression one of pain and his arm just _gone_…

Sensing it's masters hidden question, was Jack dead, he growled out a negative, primal mind conveying a sense of fatigue and overwork, and nodding it's great head towards the unconscious genius.

Instantly, the worry that took over his mind withered and died, only to be replaced with frustration and annoyance. The fool had merely overworked himself to the point of exhaustion and collapsed, no doubt right over the steel surface of his workstation. Disgusted at his own dramatic reaction, he gave the order to return the fatigued genius to his quarters and retreated back into the solitude of his inner courtyard. Already, he had developed an alarming attachment to the young man who had taken up residence – rather unwillingly, he might add – in his domain. He wouldn't go so far as to call it affection just yet, for the memories of Spicer's past follies and betrayals were still far too vivid in his mind to consider such a thing. Still, there was no doubt that a kind of protectiveness – and a deep anticipation of how both the events henceforth and the young man's potential would play out, were developing within him.

Sighing, he emptied his mind of thoughts pertaining to a certain red-headed genius – of course being unsuccessful, as that prompted a new thought within him. During his stay at Chase's mountain lair, Jack had been deprived of nothing – given all the food, clothing and comforts he'd asked for, which coincidentally, not counting his lab equipment, was not much. However, the one thing that he'd refused to provide for the inventor was his, so-called, "beauty products". That included both his eyeliner, and as he had recently discovered, his red hair-dye. Of course, he had figured out early on that the paleness of Jack's skin was not caused by the excessive use of white makeup powder, but rather his albinism. Jack had protested this restriction vehemently, one of the sole instances where he had raised his voice against the overlord. His defiance was crushed immediately, of course, and the Spicer was given a scathing rapport on how the chemicals in his dye would no doubt reduce his brain functions and cause health problems with repeated use. Jack had seemed dishearten, but cowed no the less.

Now, several weeks after the incident, Jack's hair was beginning to grow out, white tresses peeking out from his scalp of what was previously fire-engine red, but had now faded into a dull pinkish color that embarrassed the young villain so much he had take to wearing a thick skullcap at all times to cover his, quote-unquote, "don't". After one of his warriors had playfully stolen a protesting Jack's cap, he'd had to restrain the urge to comment that the pure white color of the albino's true hair was quite fetching indeed. In fact, relieved of the majority of his heavy gothic clothing and makeup, Jack's true form had begun to reveal itself. Working himself down to the bone in outfits of tank-tops and tight-fitting jeans, he had shown himself to be developing into a lean, very lightly muscled form that Chase found strangely appealing in it's own right. Most would label the young genius as 'scrawny', however the warlord fancied the teen to look delicately fragile – the missing arm only adding to this air, as his balance was severely impaired and he tended to totter endearingly from place to place, often clutching onto the seemingly sympathetic arm of JB-1. That is, in the times that he wasn't forced to transport himself via wheelie chair from place to place. Early on, when Chase had discovered that Jack had been over-stressing himself by pacing around the lab in thought, he'd cornered the goth and forced him to give the command to his JackBots to force him into his wheelie chair as soon as he showed to barest sign of fatigue.

He had recently become rather less fond of his previously treasured chair as a result.

Unlike his innate rejection of any form of attachment he might feel for Jack, he had no qualms about admitting his attraction to the young man's physical form. Over his 1,500 year long life-span, he'd loved many men and women, and never tired of the practice of lovemaking itself. He doubted that if he lived a thousand years more, he would tire of it. However, in recent years he had been experiencing a brief dry-spell, momentarily loosing his interest after the death of a treasured love-time lover whom he had allowed himself to become too attached to over the years.

Jack Spicer had shocked his libido back into action, it seemed, he thought with a hint of amusement and a bit more than a hint of unease. Jack Spicer was nearly his polar opposite, and though similarities were emerging from the woodwork, it was far from a match made in heaven. They would no doubt, in time, after the initial shock and drama wore off, rub each other the wrong way. It was nearly inevitable.

That didn't stop him from abandoning his meditation to check on Spicer's sleep, and steal a secret kiss upon the innocent smoothness of his resting brow.

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Yup. Chapter four's up. Sorry it took so long – I've had it done for a while, but I went on vacation planning to finish it there – only to find out that they have no internet. Sorry again for the wait.

As you can see, things are starting to develop for my character's relationship – not too long until the dangerous fluff levels arrive. Just a warning.

And to all my reviewers – I'm glad you are enjoying the story! I hope you'll all keep reading and reviewing, as I always love feed back – it makes me want to write even more! (hinthint).

Looking forward to your comments!

-SS


	5. Untaken Roads and Lack of Prose

Lost and Found – Chapter 5

**Title:** Lost and Found

**Chapter:** 5 – Of Untaken Roads and Lack of Prose

**Author:** ScathingSarcasm

**Pairings/Characters:** Chack

**Rating**: M

**Disclaimer:** I do not own XS or related characters. JB-01, However, I do claim as my own character, so HANDS OFF, HE'S MINE!

**Warnings:** Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH.

**Word Count: **I'm not telling you this time. It's too shameful. Still, there was no helping it! I got to a stopping point. Back up off me! 

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Chase paced too and fro silently, the tension in his frame making his feline minions hiss and slink away from their master in agitation. After Jack's sudden collapse from exhaustion, he had become reclusive and the dramatic increase in his antisocial mannerisms had shocked the warlord. The boy had said little when he regained consciousness, sitting silently though the furious dragon lord's rant and falling back to sleep as soon as he was granted reprieve. He soon, after being given a clean bill of health from JB-01, returned to his lab and had been holed up in there ever since.

Regardless, of course, of the immortal's fierce protests and, dare he say it, _concern_. When they had reached the recently technologically advanced entrance of the albino's lab, Jack's behavior had become strange and stilted. As the pneumonic hiss of the electronic doors opened sounded throughout the now deathly-silent corridor, the youngling had turned to him. His large crimson eyes were wide and glassy, and he had an absentminded smile on his pale visage that both eased his agitation and set him on edge.

"Chase…" he whispered, as if not wishing to break the ethereal atmosphere the hall had obtained through the combination of his and the everlord's connected gazes,

"My arm is complete."

In the week proceeding Jack's declaration, he was noticeably more cheerful, and, frustratingly, increasingly secretive. When questioned about how, exactly, the finished arm would migrate from it's prized place on his work table to the albino's body, he only replied that 'preparations were being made'.

JB-01 seemed to be occupying increasing amounts of the young genius' time, holding an apparently pivotal role in the proceedings as new electronics began sprouting up from the abyss that was Jack's lab; worrying, ill-fitting things. A heart monitor, an IV drip, and a large slab of steel that looked disturbingly like an operating table. Jack, in all his secrecy, made no attempt to hide the fact that there was to be heavy surgery involved in the recreation of his missing limb. This may have seemed, in hindsight, obvious, but to a being whose entire life was immersed in all things arcane and magical, the concept of modern medicine was foreign and unacceptable. Undeniable was the truth that in the last hundred or so years of his life, he had allowed himself to become ignorant of the going-ons of the world around him. Unbeknownst to him, hidden away in his mountainous lair far above and beyond the mortals, the world morphed and grew; skyscrapers shot up from what was once barren soil; culture developed and the people grew smarter, and at the same time, lost sight of the true knowledge, or what little they had gained through their struggles and lives.

Still, it was impossible for him to ignore that Spicer obviously knew what he was doing. Any remaining doubt that the timid albino would falter in his calculations was erased when, after politely requesting of Chase a set of surgical scalpels and tools, he demonstrated his knowledge of them by describing, in great detail, the practice of reconnecting his tissues to the newly created electronical nerves of his new arm. Though he couldn't comprehend any of what was said to him, the pure medical jargon was quite impressive. In fact, he could almost deem himself comfortable with the idea of the surgery –

That was, until, he found out that _JB-01_ was to perform the operation.

"What are you thinking, foolish boy?! You would have some ill-conceived hunk of scrap metal slice into your fragile human flesh, without any concern towards your own safety?!"

"Stop insulting them! I am their creator, so by insulting them, you're insulting me!"

"Perhaps I am right to, if this is all your genius amounts to! Your creations have betrayed you before, Spicer, what makes you think it won't happen again?"

"I trust JB-01! But then again, you wouldn't know anything about trust, would you, Chase? Sitting here high up in your tower, it must be easy to see everyone else's faults! But if you'd just take a second to look as yourself, you'd realize that you're not perfect either!"

Utter silence met the younger male's declaration, but rather than falter as he usually would, the goth forged forward.

"Please, Chase…" he whispered, soft cerise eyes glistening with anguished emotion, "Just _trust_ me. Trust me to know how handle this situation, trust the people I trust, know that my safety is in good hands and don't _worry_, because I'm not going anywhere for a good long while. I'm staying here… with you."

At the crux of warmth and insecurity, dependence and strength, connection and isolation, there was a choice to be made. The most obvious, the path filled with light and hope and understanding, everything that makes the world shimmer in the eyes of innocents, stood right before the everlord, one he had always wanted yet never dared to take. It would be perfect.

Unfortunately, the world was rarely perfect, and he just couldn't take the risk.

Even for Jack's – Spicer's – beautiful eyes.

"I require no companionship, Spicer, and I have no reason to trust you, or your toys." The ancient stated coldly, and watched with slight, but sinking regret, the light within those enchanting irises fade.

Mechanically, the engineer turned on his heel and headed back towards his lab, absently aware of his mouth muttering, "I'll come back out when the surgery is done."

Each move, like one of his many creations, felt done as if by some remote control, not of his volition, but by a powerful outside force. Oddly, he was thankful – he worried what action he might take if he was in control of all his facilities at the moment. All of his thoughts were occupied with the gaping hole in his stomach, eerily reminiscent to the phantom emptiness in his arm – one that, he was vaguely proud to say, would soon be banished from his mind.

Turning pleading yet blank eyes towards his first and most favored creation, he felt, more than saw, JB-01 nod his understanding and consent. Giving the order to prepare for the difficult operation ahead, the machine gently lead the muted genius to the table, laying him within the confines of the slab and preparing the various pieces of equipment.

Barely cognizant to the soft sting of the anesthetic needle piercing the flesh of his wrist, a hazy fog overcame his senses.

The last think he was aware of was JB-01's modulated voice, strangely, humanly soft as it murmured to him, "Rest, master. Everything will be better when you awaken."

_I'll come back out when I'm complete again._

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YES, I'M AWARE IT'S PATHETICALLY SMALL. BACK OFF.

Rawr. I'm very sorry for the reduced size this chapter. I got to a stopping point and simply could not get Jack and Chase to say anything else. But aren't you glad we got to this point? Yay! He'll have his arm next chapter, so look forward to that, at least.

Much love!

-SS


	6. Of Admiration and Infiltration

**Title:** Lost and Found

**Chapter:** 6 - Of Admiration and Infiltration

**Author:** ScathingSarcasm

**Pairings/Characters:** Chack

**Rating**: M

**Disclaimer:** I do not own XS or related characters. JB-01, However, I do claim as my own character, so HANDS OFF, HE'S MINE!

**Warnings:** Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH.

**A/N: **'Kay, gang, so gather round. I'm just going to tell you now; ANYTHING SCIENCE-Y THAT I MENTION IN THI FIC, WHILE BASED ON REAL FACTS, IS NOT ACTUALLY TRUE. In fact, the vast majority of it isn't even possible. So I don't want any reviews from anyone whining about how "so-and-so enzyme doesn't do that!" or "that isn't medically possible!". It's a fan fiction, kids. About magical boomerangs and talking panda mob-bosses. Ya gotta allow for a little suspension of disbelief.

That said, I know I've been flaking horribly on my updates, and I can only thank you all for remaining interested, and hope you enjoy the chapter.

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When babies are born, they are perfect. Smooth, flawless and soft skin, downy hair, ten little fingers and ten little toes. Fragile bones, then undeveloped muscles, flesh and paper-thin tissue, ligaments connecting the arms to the shoulders and the legs to the hips...

But then, the transformation, the slow, gradual slip from undeniable perfection into flawed, jilted existence. Babies grow, become older, sometimes wiser, sometimes not. Cuts heal over and form tough white scars, bones break and mend, leaving hard, knitted knots in their place. Personalities develop, people become embittered, as the slow dawning of reality takes place.

For him, it was sharp. Unexpected, almost. Sure, he'd been wronged before; he'd had his trusted betrayed, been lied to, disappointed, wounded. But he'd always been prepared, mentally expectant even if not consciously, and therefore able to steel himself from true hurt, and thus, true realization. He'd maintained a naive, childlike mentality when it came to other people – he disliked his enemies passionately, but grudgingly accepted their occasional good deeds (towards him) and reluctantly extended the hand of peace when his cue was given.

Equally, when he loved, he did so ardently; and there was no doubt that he loved Chase Young.

However, somehow, he'd allowed that love to become the sword with which he was struck down – the weapon wielded against his heart, not only once, but several times. In the moments before he'd lost his limb, he had had the realization that even though he had surrendered to his not-so-secret love, he had felt nothing less than an absolute sense of peace. There was no shame in surrendering to Chase.

After all, his heart had surrendered the moment he'd laid eyes on him.

Now though, as he drifted in a white sea that viscerally, he knew to be caused by the anesthetic, he contemplated where he would go from here. He had offered his loyalty, his talent and ultimately, yes, his heart – had held it up into the sky and had it scoffed at, tossed aside and deemed unworthy, unnecessary. He had felt the sting of Chase's refusal countless times before, so he could, of course, bury his head in the ground – pretend that this instance was no different than the last, pretend that he was completely unaffected and charge onward with the single-minded determination that was characteristic of Jack Spicer.

Or, he could repair his body, flee, and regroup. Get his priorities straight, get his life sorted out, and recover from his accumulated heartaches. He could leave all of this Shen Gong Wu business behind him; there were other, more effective ways to take over the world, anyway. Apart from a select few, the Wu weren't even really that impressive; a whip, a ray-blaster, amour and a strong fist; all could be replicated a thousand fold by modern technology. But he was digressing from his point.

And he was running out of time. Already, the hazy fog of the sedative was fading, replaced with the sharp, intruding shock of the recovery room lights, however thoughtfully dimmed no doubt by JB-01. All thoughts of the choice he had to make, he eagerly anticipated the return of his other senses, anticipating the feeling of his new limb, whether it be pain, or any other sensation under the sea.

Instead he felt... nothing.

Then aching emptiness that had been pulling at his soul since the separation of arm and body was still present, still strong, dominating his senses. He felt a horrible rush of dread – what went wrong? Had the surgery been unsuccessful? Had Chase been right – had JB-01 _failed?!_

But no, he calmed himself, kicking his logic into high gear. Something within his own mechanics must have been faulty – something within the arm itself.

Something with the nerves themselves...

His newly awakened eyes lit with an all-consuming fury.

_Operative 44._

An ear-shattering "BANG!" shuttered through the lair, forcing a full-body shudder (though he would sooner kill than admit it,) from the warlord's heightened senses. A few minutes later, a protesting monotone voice he registered, through a haze of dislike, as JB-01's, accompanied by the chilly silence that could only be interpreted as the sound of utter rage, entered his field of awareness. Something was wrong - this wasn't just one of the boy genius' standard (though often unseen by the warlord nowadays) hiss-fits. This was a Problem.

Chase disliked Problems.

From the hallway connecting his meditation room to the conjoined guest suites, the brisk 'taptaptap' of Spicer's steel-bottomed boots reached him, and moments later, the boy himself entered the room.

And while his bottom half was still normally clothed in his clunky black boots and scuffed-up black jeans...

His top half was decidedly less clothed.

Chase Young, he reminded himself, was a near-thousand year old warrior overlord, with blood-caked hands and a soul black as death.

Therefore, it was impossible for him to be, even inwardly, gaping appreciatively at Jack Spicer's smooth, pale expanse of snow-white, lightly muscled chest, decorated here and there with delicately raised scars from the various battles he'd been in (and lost, no doubt,) over the years. And it was true, he'd seen it all before - but what roused him more even than Spicer's admittedly attractive body (and yes, he would readily admit that it was a pleasing form to his weighing eyes,) was the icy, wrathful look in those large cerise eyes of his.

Turning his attention back to the matter at hand, he rumbled from his meditative position on the floor, "What seems to be the problem, Spicer?"

Sounding like he'd never heard before, the young goth's reply came out in the form of a venomous hiss.

"_This _is the problem!"

And he thrust out what used to be a flesh and blood appendage - but no longer. Instead, the gentle lighting of the chamber reflected off of a long, elegant length of shining silver, as moonlight does on a lake. Far from the ugly, spindling mass he'd expected the arm to look like, this was far more beautiful than any human flesh could aspire to be - and as he gazed closely at it's details, he caught sight of a string a protective and strengthening runes spiraling about it's body, forming thing bracelets at his shoulder and wrist. It seemed that one of the only non-magical beings that participated in the epic battle for Shen Gong Wu had finally wised up to the power those ancient energies could imbue in even the most mundane of individuals. Yet still, he couldn't understand the source of the genius' upset.

"Elaborate." He demanded, raising an imperious ebony brow.

"Operative 44 betrayed me!" He growled menacingly, the glinting artificial fingers curling into a fist before him. "The fucking rat gave me faulty nerves! I can't feel _anything_!"

Closely examining the younger man's expression, the overlord spotted keenly how his enraged eyes shined with a thin layer of tears - the boy was truly frightened, terrified. His entire frame shuddered faintly with distress. Heaving a mental sigh, he stood and strode swiftly towards the one who had so captured his attention, unable to discard his troubles so easily, even if he had wished to.

Tipping up the boy's delicately heart-shaped chin, he looked deep into the goth's tumultuous, bloody eyes.

"Well, you know what you must do from here, Spicer... _get even_."

And slowly, a devious, malicious grin creeped over Jack's face.

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Rather than storm the Pentagon with all of the reckless bluster that Chase use to associate with the redhead, he instead found himself trailing after Jack as he returned to his temporary laboratory. The teen's countenance, though still icy-cold, was noticeably calmer at the thought of revenge, and, he suspected, thoughtfulness over how he would reclaim feeling in his limb. A limb which he, despite all his valiant efforts, could not take his eyes off of. It was probably indecent to be so utterly captivated by a piece of machinery, even one so masterfully crafted as this, but he could not bring himself to care as he observed carefully the curve and bend, the gentle, ethereal play of the hall's candle light on it's metallic surface, the sheer artistry of the ageless runes looping in an infinite circle around the beautiful appendage, around and around, endlessly, eternally...

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sharp clinking of glass vials against each other, realizing they had arrived in the lab, and, looking to the source of the noise, saw Jack muttering to himself in the corner, rooting though vials and beakers of luridly colored liquids in his usual disorganized manner. Apparently finding the one he was looking for, he let out a triumphant "Ha!", clutching a long, thing vial full of acid green, sparkling liquid, run through with veins of royal blue. Placing the vial carefully into an empty rack on his worktable, the genius returned to his search. By the end of his hunt, his worktable was burdened with equipment, ranging from a rainbow of vialed liquids, to odd mechanical balls and canisters, what appeared to be a moderately sized syringe, and a...dart-gun?

"What is the meaning of all this, Spicer?"

Cerise eyes shot over to him, glimmering faintly with surprise; the teen hadn't expected him to follow. Turning that over in his mind, he nevertheless waited impatiently for his answer.

Confusedly, Spicer did so. "I'm going to track down Operative 44, find why he gave me beat goods, and then get my _not-_beat goods."

Apparently, he had thought too soon. "You're planning on storming the _Pentagon_? Do you realize how idiotic that is? Even with whatever superior technology you posses, do you truly wish to make enemies with an entire governmental organization? No, an entire _country_!"

The boy genius scoffed. "Even I'm not that idealistic. The synthetic nerves I'm planning on stealing are tiny; and I mean, REALLY tiny. I don't need to go there myself to steal them. I can use _this._"

Spicer held out his flesh hand, and sitting in the center of his ivory palm was what looked to be a tiny, lifelike robotic spider.

"I call it a Spyder. I can remotely control it from right here in the lab, and even if it is discovered, which has about a ten million-to-one chance of happening, they won't be able to track it back to be in any way. I even installed a self-incinerator that I can activated as soon as I'm noticed; it'll vaporize into thin air, as if it wasn't even there. Besides, these nerves are relatively low-priority on the Pentagon's "do not let fall into the wrong hands list". There's no money in curing things like nerve damage and paralyzation, and quality of life issues are none of their concern. To be honest, I don't even know why they have a project like this in the first place; it's a relatively new installment, apparently funded by some do-gooder rich outside benefactor who had his own scientists working on it for years. Probably some personal connection to the research..."

Reigning in his impressed expression, the overlord sighed, "Do get to the point, Spicer."

The techie scowled, but acquiesced, "Right. So, I can use it to steal the nerves. And as for my revenge on Op. 44..."

That fetching, merciless shine in Spicer's eyes returned, wickedly sharp and more poignant than ever.

"I'll be visiting his residence..._ personally_."

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A/N: Thanks for reading, y'all! Hope you enjoyed it, be looking out for the next installment; intrigue, infiltration, indecency and revenge all await!

Love and Peace!

-SS


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